


Petals

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11588607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Elrond’s distracted by Lindir’s chest.





	Petals

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

After a long, wearying day, these nightly routines are precious, ones that Elrond savours with all of his being. He cradles his sweet Lindir in his arms, drinks in the lavender scent of Lindir’s freshly washed hair, basks in his warmth, and swims in the quiet song he hums beneath his breath. Even in the darkness of Elrond’s starlit chambers, Lindir is a bright ray of sun. Lindir is his prized gem, his crowning jewel, his greatest treasure. Yet Lindir, so humble and sweet, never seems to know it. 

Even now, with the day long past and the two of them cuddled up in bed, Lindir diligently works. He has a stretch of parchment unfurled across his lap, his fingers busily skimming across each line. They haven’t yet slept, and Lindir is already fretting over tomorrow’s schedule. 

Elrond, seated behind Lindir and flush against his back, finger-combs his brown locks into place. They’re already silken, smooth, and free of any tangles, but part of that is because Elrond does this each night, even though Lindir likes to insist that he should be the only one attending Elrond. Elrond receives the same attention in the morning, where Lindir will fetch and press his robes, brush and braid his hair, and even straighten his collar and set his circlet in place. Then he’ll often kiss Lindir in thanks, and Lindir will glow a pretty scarlet and scurry off to other duties. 

At night, there is nowhere for Lindir to run but deeper into Elrond’s arms. He does seem more relaxed there, as he so rarely is, even if he still brings his work with him. Elrond tries to allow him that. Elrond finishes with Lindir’s hair and hooks his chin over Lindir’s shoulder, wondering if he should command that this be enough—if he ordered it, Lindir would rest properly.

Before he can entertain such an order, his eyes catch down Lindir’s front, dipping beneath the white tunic that drapes across his breast.

The tunic is Elrond’s. It’s slightly oversized, a little too broad for Lindir’s slender frame, and the sight of Lindir in it always makes Elrond’s skin grow warm. Now he looks beyond the fabric, to the little pink nubs that peak beneath it, both just barely visible from Elrond’s angle, cast in the shadows of night. He can see enough. And it’s enough to be tantalizing. For a long moment, Elrond eyes them, the strangely forbidden sight, and the innocent way Lindir continues to sit obliviously, at least until Elrond’s hands search below the blankets.

Draped over both their laps, those blankets hide the view of Elrond’s actions. But Lindir must still _feel_ them, because he gives a sudden gasp, body pulling taut. Elrond bunches up the bottom of the tunic and reaches up, finding and smoothing flat against Lindir’s stomach, climbing eagerly higher. Lindir lets out a breathless, “My lord...”

But then Elrond has found his prize, and when he pinches each delicate bud, Lindir cries out and arches up. His head tosses back onto Elrond’s shoulder, mouth open wide and lashes falling closed as Elrond applies the slightest of pinches, then the most subtle of twists. He toys with his captives lightly, then greedily, soon relentless—for Lindir writhes and whimpers in his grasp, more enticing with each movement. Lindir, though so reserved at work, has always been absurdly _easy_ under Elrond’s hands. He realized that the first time he kissed Lindir in his office, expecting no more than to assuage the fleeting affections of youth, only to find his lap soon full of his attendant and a desperate plea for _more_.

He massages Lindir’s nipples now, thumbing them repeatedly and pulling back to palm them in circles, and Lindir responds to each little touch as though he’s being held down and roughly penetrated. He squirms in Elrond’s lap with a debauched moan that could seduce even the Valar. It makes Elrond feel, not for the first time, absurdly lucky to have him. 

When Elrond kisses the back of Lindir’s elegant ear, Lindir tries to twist back to lean into the touch, whilst still thrusting his chest forward, breast begging for Elrond to continue. Elrond does. He rubs both abused nipples as he licks Lindir’s shell, purring into it, “How sensitive you are, my love... I wonder if you might finish from this alone.”

“I could,” Lindir moans, shameless in a way he never seems under the light of day, or at least, to any other but Elrond. Elrond gives his left nipple a firm tug, and he grinds his hips back and gasps, “I could spill myself from only your command.”

Elrond believes that. And he’s honoured for it. He ducks his head to kiss Lindir’s shoulder, the exposed bit where the tunic’s fallen open; Lindir’s flesh is warm and waiting beneath his hungry mouth. Lindir cries out, his hips stuttering forward again, and the parchment slips from his lap. His hands are now clenched tight in the blankets. Elrond is growing swiftly hard against Lindir’s backside, and only centuries of experience keep him from grinding it in. He knows he could be _inside_ Lindir the second he wished it. Lindir would even forgo preparation for him. Or Lindir would use his mouth—anything to please. But Elrond has never been so unkind to him, and for now, this is what Elrond wishes to focus on—the two red nubs between his fingers, tweaked to hardness and made achingly raw. Lindir mewls over the slightest tweak to them and all but sobs when Elrond pulls them. 

Elrond thinks of adorning them, of fixing them with little clamps, even stringing a chain of jewels between. Lindir would look beautiful in such jewelry, as he does in everything. 

Elrond suddenly realizes he’s kissed too hard and gnawed a bruise into Lindir’s lovely shoulder, and he licks over it now to soothe it. When he’s finished, he muses aloud, “Perhaps you could do the opposite, my songbird, and withhold yourself for me.” He thinks of it only to give himself time to fetch the oil and stretch Lindir open, so that they might make this last. 

Lindir answers in utter reverence between hoarse gasps, “I would never spill myself again if my lord wished it; I would spend my entire life in glorious torment just to please you.”

Lindir’s pleasure does please him. In a quick moment of decision, Elrond drops his hands to Lindir’s hips, and he lifts Lindir right up, dislodging the blankets, and spins Lindir right around in his lap. One of Lindir’s legs bends just in time to make the crossing, tossing over Elrond’s lap instead, so that Elrond can pull Lindir close against him again, only lifting him up and holding him high. With one hand, Elrond yanks at the tunic’s neck and rips it straight down the front, paying no heed—it’s his own anyway. But Lindir gasps at the crude display, and now Elrond can see properly how very flushed he is, how bleary-eyed and desperate, wanting. Elrond ducks his head to continue his worship of the perfect chest he’s revealed, now drawing the closest nipple into his mouth.

He catches it between his teeth, gives it the barest of scrapes, and with a single suck, Lindir is crying out, “Please! Ah, my lord—p-please!”

Elrond gives a harder suck, then releases it, growling into Lindir’s used chest, “ _Come_.”

Lindir obeys. He bursts with a wild cry, spurting between them, dampening the bottom of his tunic and tensing for a few seconds before becoming utterly boneless. His head falls to the crook of Elrond’s neck, body slumping forward, and Elrond catches him in a tender embrace, letting them both sink back into the pillows piled at the headboard. 

Lindir is satiated, spent, thoroughly satisfied. Elrond can sense it. Yet he knows that if he gave the world, Lindir would force himself back up on trembling arms to pleasure his lord. 

Elrond orders no such thing. He cradles Lindir close to him instead, melting back himself, letting the hazy pleasure of Lindir’s orgasm wash over him. It’s enough for him. And it’s made better by Lindir’s murmured, “I love you. I love you, Elrond. I do.” His confessions like this are often, always heartfelt, though only so intimate, without the title, on these occasions where Elrond’s thoroughly taken him apart. On this one time, Lindir quietly chuckles, “Even though you have made my breast ache, I love you—I will think of you now every time it pains me.”

“I hope it will not pain you long,” Elrond admits, nuzzling into Lindir’s sweet-smelling hair. “I will massage herbs into it in the morning, and I shall find a way to make this up to you.”

Lindir only sighs, “Tell me you love me.”

And that seems a small price to pay for the use of such a pretty chest, so Elrond sincerely promises, “I love you.”

Elrond can practically _hear_ Lindir’s smile. He can feel it against him, feel Lindir’s joy in every facet of his body. Elrond treasures it, as he treasures all of Lindir. 

He helps turn Lindir properly into the pillows, the schedule brushed aside and long forgotten, and they fall asleep like that, tucked in one another’s arms.


End file.
